


We Are Unbreakable

by gh0stb0y



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: F/F, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Symbiotic Relationship, Violence, but i have to give credit to the film for the inspiration, rosalie is a symbiote and bella is her host, very venom (2018) inspired but does its own thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 16:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gh0stb0y/pseuds/gh0stb0y
Summary: Bella is a freelance journalist working part-time at a local library in Seattle. After taking a job to interview Carlisle Cullen, founder of the Olympia Institute, she comes down with something awful. Unbeknownst to her, she has aided in the escape of Unbreakable, one of the symbiotes being studied by the Institute, which believes her to be the ideal host. Bella must learn to coexist with her new partner who doesn't entirely understand the way the world works.





	We Are Unbreakable

            I’d given a lot of thought as to how I would die. Car crash seemed pretty likely, but I’ve been through some outlandish scenarios in my head. Very _Final Destination_ , like something out of a movie. Super unlikely, yet here I stand.

            From what I can count, there are at least six assault rifles pointed at my chest, little red dots hovering on my hoodie, just begging for a cat to swipe at them. Do cats chase laser sights? I can’t imagine that ends well for them. I can’t imagine any scenario where that would happen, either.

            I drop the box of pop tarts that I had just lifted off the shelf, and it hits the floor unceremoniously. Delicious brown sugar cinnamon, little blue box lying on its side next to my foot. Slowly, afraid, I raise my hands over my head, turning to fully face the strike team that has descended upon me in this tiny, local grocery store.

            “Keep your hands in the air!” one of them shouts, his voice muffled by the mask over his face.

            I nod, sweat beading on my forehead.

            “Unbreakable, right?” I whisper very quietly, hoping that these men in front of me, armed to teeth, won’t question me talking to myself. I can see one of them giving a little love to his trigger, staring down the barrel at me, waiting for me to make one wrong move.

            _“Unbreakable.”_

**-X-**

            Freelance journalism does not pay the bills, friends. What pays the bills is your divorced parents working together to support their college graduate daughter so that she can live in a mildly nice studio apartment in Seattle. That, and working part-time at the public library. That’s what pays the bills. Freelance journalism—when you’re not yet a _successful_ journalist—pays for microwavable dinners, Costco-size boxes of pop tarts, and cases of Mike’s Harder from the convenience store down the corner.

            It’s a living. I guess.

            What freelance journalism does do is open up doors. It gives opportunities, some of which I take, and some of which I don’t, usually for no particular reason other than “I don’t want to”, which is a freedom that I have. That’s the “freelance” part. Rejecting opportunities doesn’t get me any further in life, but it doesn’t necessarily set me back that much either. It just keeps me in my mediocre studio apartment, dusting pop tart crumbs off my black t-shirts while I watch YouTube videos about the super fancy science man I’m going to be interviewing.

            It’s a big job. The biggest I’ve ever gotten, I’ll admit. A big publication liked some of my past work and now they want me to interview _the_ Dr. Cullen. I thought they were joking when I got the email. Thought it was spam that somehow got through all the filters. But, no. Real deal. Big deal. All because I wrote something really nice about a museum once and I seem to “have a knack for tackling the sciences”.

            I was an English major, folks. I wouldn’t touch a STEM program with a ten-foot pole, but here I am, trying to figure out next-level biology or whatever it is this man does at the Olympia Institute besides curing cancer. What a man, really.

            “England born, Italian funded, and American based. You’ve got quite a lot of international flair going on here, Dr. Cullen,” I say to him as we walk side by side through the gleaming halls of the Olympia Institute, sitting pretty across the bay from Seattle, just outside Manchester. I’m armed with a recorder and my notes, sword and shield against this Greek god of a man. He’s blonde-haired and blue-eyed and his bones are set in all the right places. Any woman would kill for him, or maybe that’s an exaggeration. I am of a different persuasion.

            He chuckles. “Yes, yes, it is a lot. I have to thank my dear friend Aro for funding the Institute in its early days, but we mostly run on our own money now. And we are flourishing.”

            He opens his arms wide as we step into one of the central halls of the elaborate, sterile-white building. Every inch of it is glowing with state-of-the-art technology that I am doing every thing I can not to be distracted by.

            “It really is bold of you to start off your career by curing cancer like it’s nothing.”

            “Not nothing, Miss Swan, not nothing. Let me say that it was never an easy task, and it still presents its challenges. Our treatments are not perfect and still require future development.”

            “Right, right. I apologize. What kind of developments?”

            He launches into a long monologue about scientific progress that I can’t be paid to pay attention to or decipher (even though I am being paid to). Not to diminish anything he’s saying, but it’s far beyond me. He is very enthusiastic, though, and seems good-natured. I almost don’t want to ask the next question on my list, but I know I have to.

            “And what of these new allegations against the Institute?”

            “Allegations?” he asks, brows raised.

            I could see the security guard walking with us tense. I was asking something that I wasn’t going to get answers to.

            “Yes, of running human trials too early and whatnot. There have been several allegations of inhuman practices-”

            “I can assure you that nothing of the sort is going on here,” he says with a forceful smile.

            “Of course,” I say. “And what are your future plans for the Institute, aside from improving upon current projects?”

            “It’s quite simple: here at the Institute, we want to make the unknown _known_. We want to seek answers where no one has sought them before. We want to take scientific exploration to the next level.”

            “Space?” I ask, not really knowing where he was leading me.

            “Maybe, maybe. And maybe there are things on this Earth yet unknown to us as well.”

            I was on the verge of saying “So, the ocean, then,” when someone else in a lab coat appeared in front of us, rushing out of a fancy automatic door. He looks no older than me, with a head of charmingly disheveled copper hair, cheeks dotted with freckles, and eyes as green as the forests of the Olympic Peninsula.

            “Dad, they need you to come to the lab, ASAP,” he says as he rushes up to us, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize-”

            “It’s fine,” says Dr. Cullen. “I think Miss Swan and I were just finishing up anyways.”

            “Oh, uh, yes, thank you so much, Dr Cullen.”

            I extend a hand that he takes and shakes firmly before departing from me and the security guard, briskly walking away with who I now know to be his son, the young prodigy, Edward. I should’ve asked about him, I realize, and then I kick myself.

            “I can lead you back to the main entrance,” says the security guard, letting me know that I can’t linger around here for much longer.

            “Can you show me to a bathroom first?” I ask, having had to pee for the last ten minutes of my conversation with one of the brightest minds on the planet.

            “Of course.”

            He leads me in the same direction that Dr. Cullen and his son left in, and takes me down a few winding hallways to a set of doors marked “men” and “women”. I thank him and briefly depart from his presence to do my business.

            Just as I’m finishing up in the stall, I hear something shifting around in the ceiling above me, and something wet touches my neck. I reach back to wipe it away, but feel nothing. I twist to look above me, but see nothing. Perturbed, I stand up to leave. Just as I’m buckling my belt, I’m hit with a wave of heat, as if a sudden fever was now spreading all over my body. I stumble forward, running into the back of the stall door and bracing myself on it. Someone nearby asks me if I’m okay, and I manage to choke out a yes. I can feel the sweat on my skin already; it’s only been a minute. What’s wrong with me? Shaky hands fumble with the latch, which I undo and stumble out into the bathroom, catching myself on the skin. I stare into the mirror and see just how red and sweaty I’ve become. The concerned citizen from before exits a stall and sees my face in the mirror, says, “Rough one, huh?” and I nod, jaw clenched, eyes wide open.

            Moving feels strange, as if I’m having an out of body experience, or learning how to use the controls in a video game for the first time. I walk out of the bathroom, one foot in front of the other, and tell my escort that I’m not feeling so well and that I would appreciate it if he got me back to my car, fast. He can tell I’m not lying by the way I look, and he grabs me by the arm and supports me as he takes me back downstairs to the front, walking me all the way out the door to my truck.

            “I hope you feel better,” he says as I lean against the side of the shitty old red Chevy.

            I just nod, holding my stomach and my forehead at the same time. As soon as he walks away, I bend over and hurl out my guts on the asphalt. Pop tarts and sliced peaches. Yum.

            By the grace of god I manage to drive back into Seattle, back to my apartment where I curl up on the couch, shaking and sweating. I would go to the doctor if I thought I was capable of driving myself anywhere else, but I had used up all my concentration and energy on the way home. Now, all I want to do is rest.

            That is not what my body wants, however.

            After about fifteen minutes of lying in the fetal position on the couch, I am possessed by an immense hunger like nothing I have ever felt before. I feel like I haven’t eaten in ten years, like I have never _seen_ food in my life. I fly to the kitchen with all the grace of a newborn foal, throwing open the fridge and scouring it for anything edible. I am a miserable little college graduate, so I find only alcohol and leftover lo mein and rice from three days ago that should probably be in the trash. Desperate, I grab it, and I try to search for a fork in my pig sty of a kitchen, but I give up and shovel the Chinese takeout into my mouth with my hands. White box empty, I haphazardly lob it at the trash can; it lands about two feet to the left of it. I throw open the cabinets. My eyes find the box of pop tarts. I grab a pack, tear it open, eating both pastries at the same time. When I return to the fridge again, I find an old peach that is definitely not suitable for human consumption, yet I shove it in my pie hole like a fucking monster. Halfway through it, I gag and sprint to the bathroom, heaving up most of what I just ate into the toilet bowl.

            “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mumble through strands of saliva into the porcelain as I hit the flush. “What am doing?”

            I stand up, wiping my mouth with a nearby towel, and turn around to look in the mirror. My eyes have sunk into my face and I am drenched with sweat. I look like shit. Leaning in closer, I rub my chin, and then pause. I look closer. Something is off. I squint, then open my eyes wide.

            I can see it: something, in my irises, moving, changing colors like a kaleidoscope. Maybe I’m just losing it. It’s the fever, I say, I’m going crazy because of the fever. I stand up straight and rub my face, wiping away more sweat and spit before I look in the mirror again. I freeze, hand held over my mouth.

            My eyes are red. Not bloodshot, but red. Brown gone, replaced by the color of blood. I blink once, twice, three times, and it stays. I let my hand fall away from my mouth and pull at my eyes in shock, touching my face to make sure this is real.

            Then, as if I was no longer in control of my body, my hands fly down to the sides of the sink and I snarl into the mirror, the whites of my eyes turning black. Black veins extend outward from them, and my mouth opens far wider than it should, suddenly displaying rows of jagged fangs. This all occurs within a split second, and I fly back from the mirror, falling through my shower curtain into the bathtub with a terrified yelp.

            _“Bella!”_

I hold my head in my hands. What the fuck is going on? It’s gotta be the fever. Definitely. Right?

            I push myself up. For a second, I’m afraid to look in the mirror. When I do, I see my face, nothing strange about it aside from how exhausted I look. I splash some water on my face in the sink and quickly exit the bathroom. I flop back down on the couch, fingers pressed against my closed eyes. It’s only five, but I’m dead tired. I roll over, facing the back of the couch. Before I know it, I’m asleep.

**-X-**

            Angela is the one who finally takes me to the hospital. She’s absolutely right to do so. I don’t even know what I was thinking, trying to come into work at the library the way I am. I guess I’m just the kind of person who’s afraid to miss anything, even when I’m deathly ill.

            “What did you think you were going to do? Sweat all over the books? You look like shit, Bells. God, you could be contagious. You’d be spreading your disease to the entire city.”

            She’s totally right—I’m a massive idiot.

            I’m completely out of it while they run all kinds of tests on me. The doctors are asking me questions that I can barely mumble the answers to. You know it’s bad when you can hardly remember your own birthday. They’ve got me in a hospital gown now. I don’t remember taking off my clothes or giving anyone my belongings, but it’s a hospital, so I’m sure someone is taking care of it. Either that, or this is an elaborate scheme to rob me. My fever is too high to let me care.

            Eventually, I end up in an MRI machine. Not my first time being in one of these bad boys. Means something bad has happened. The usual stuff didn’t tell them enough about what was wrong with me, so they have to pop me into this bad boy. That, I understand.

            What I don’t understand is what happens once they cut it on, and I don’t think they do either. It sounds like glass on glass—breaking glass?—an insanely high-pitched noise.

_“NO!”_

My brain is shattering into a thousand pieces and my body is seizing up. I’ve gotta be dying, I tell myself. This is how it all ends. Killed by an MRI malfunction. Nails on a chalkboard. Someone drilling directly into my brain. I vibrate like a cell phone receiving texts from a concerned mother: Where were you last night? Are you okay? You haven’t called me in a long time. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? How’s your father? Is he treating you well? Made any new friends yet?

            God, does it hurt. I don’t know how long it lasts before the doctor shuts the machine off. It knows no urgency and slides me out as slowly as it pulled me in. I can’t do much in my feverish state, but every bone in my body wants me to get away from the machine, so I hop off the table as soon as I can, stumbling towards the door where the doctor is rushing in to examine me.

            “It’s okay, some people freak out. I know I did on my first time,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. It comes off wet, my hospital gown damp with sweat. I feel disgusting.

            _“Not your first time.”_

“Not my first time,” I mutter. “Something’s up.”

            “Listen, I’m just gonna give you something for the fever and send you home. Don’t go anywhere. We’ll get you the results of your tests in a day or so.”

            A nurse arrives in the doorway to escort me to a room where I get my clothes and things back. My phone is blowing up with texts from my mother who was apparently notified of my sudden illness by Angela. I sigh, not having the mental energy to deal with Renee at the moment. There’s also a couple from Charlie, though they’re less frantic. He knows how to stay level-headed. I reply to his, telling him that I feel like shit and I’ll let him know what’s up when the doctors tell me.

            Deep down, I think I’m dying.

            _“You are not.”_

I press my hand to my forehead.

            “What the fuck?” I hiss. “Maybe I should’ve told the doctor that I’m hearing voices too.”

            _“No, actually, that sounds like a very bad idea.”_

“Of course you would say that. You’re my disease.”

            _“I am_ not _a disease.”_

I look around the room to make sure I’m not ignoring some random person standing there talking to me, but there’s no one. It’s just me, and my fears are confirmed. This voice sounds like it’s coming from inside.

            I stretch my arms and my back, ignoring it for the time being. The nurse steps back in and hands me my discharge papers, telling me to expect a call from the doctor tomorrow with my test results. I thank her and leave, searching for the nearing pharmacy to redeem my prescription at. As I sit down in the waiting room at the CVS closest to my apartment, I hear it again.

            _“Those drugs will not help you.”_

I look around. There is no one else waiting. The pharmacist is in the back, packing up my pills. He is definitely not talking to me. I check the room again, then pull the collar of my hoodie up over my mouth.

            I mumble to myself, “I’m sick. I need something.”

            _“You are not sick.”_

“Great. I’m delusional. I thought my fever was going down, but I guess not.”

            _“You are not.”_

“Then tell me what the fuck is going on, okay?”

            I’ve raised my voice a bit too much, and the pharmacist looks over his shoulder at me. I cross my legs and look up at the ceiling, whistling. This makes me look extremely conspicuous, but he turns around and goes back to filling pill bottles.

            _“I am inside you.”_

“Sexy,” I whisper.

            _“Not like that.”_

“You know, I always wanted an imaginary friend. Didn’t think it would take a fever for me to get one, though.”

            _“I am not imaginary, Bella.”_

            “Okay, Captain Cryptic, what are you? If you’re not a symptom of my illness?”

            _“I am Unbreakable.”_

My conversation with myself is interrupted by the pharmacist clearing his throat and holding up a bag with my prescription in it. I stand up and go through the motions of paying for it—there goes part of my freelance paycheck—and then quickly leave the store. Once outside, I put my earbuds in, hoping that pretending to be on the phone will throw off any passerby that happen to think I’m insane.

            “Unbreakable, huh? Is that like, your name? Or are you just describing yourself.”

            _“It is my name.”_

“You picked a pretty breakable person to take up residence in.”

            _“You are stronger than you think. I chose you for a reason.”_

“Oh? Because I’m sitting on the edge of being broke?”

            _“No.”_

“Well, I hate to break it to you—pun intended—'Unbreakable’ isn’t a name.”

            God, I can’t believe I’m humoring my delusion.

            _“What is?”_

I look around the street I’m walking down, my apartment complex looming in the distance. I catch sight of a florist on the opposite side of the street, putting out a big bouquet of fresh roses.

            “Rosalie.” It’s ancient, but it’s the first thing that comes to my mind. “Rose for short.”

            Why the fuck am I giving it a name?

            It doesn’t respond. I sigh, realizing that I’m playing games with some fake bullshit my brain made up to cope with this debilitating illness.

            Once I make it back home, I’m feeling hungry again, so I decided to heat up some instant ramen. Soup is my go-to when I’m sick, right after orange juice. The cure-alls that my mother used to pour down my throat when I was a kid. As I sit down to eat, blowing on the noodles, I hear it again.

            _“Hungry.”_

“Well, I’m about to fucking eat.”

            _“No. We require flesh. Meat. Blood.”_

I set down my fork and run a hand through my greasy hair. I haven’t showered in two days. I smell awful.

            “I know I’m going crazy, but I’m not that crazy. I’m not about to go out and start eating people or whatever.”

            _“It’s what we_ need _, Bella.”_

“It is _not_! Jesus Christ!”

            I start shoveling down ramen noodles, not paying attention to how hot they are or how much they’re burning my tongue. In the middle of eating, my hands are pulled down to the table, palms flat. I can’t move them. Noodles hang limp out of the corner of my mouth. I’m frozen.

            _“MEAT!”_ the voice demands.

            Something else takes the wheel as I stand up and throw open the fridge, rifling through the contents. I grab a pack of bologna, tear it open and shove a handful of slices into my mouth.

            _“This is_ dead _. It’s all dead!”_

I spit the chewed meat out onto the kitchen floor, adding to the greater mess that I’ll have to clean up eventually. My body makes for the door, but I manage to halt it when my hand is on the doorknob.

            “What the fuck are you doing?” I say through gritted teeth.

            _“We must eat!”_

“Look, you’re gonna take what I give you! I’m not gonna go kill a dude!”

            I force myself back from the door, then trip and fall flat on my ass.

            _“You do not understand. I can_ make _you.”_

“Make me then, bitch!”

            In retrospect, I shouldn’t have said that.

            My hands start to tingle. I look down at them and see something sparkly and silver emerging from my palms. It looks like a liquid, but it starts to crystalize over my skin, shining with rainbows from the reflected light. It spreads out over my hands, then onto my arms. I turn them over, examining this new phenomenon, which _has_ to be a fever-induced hallucination. It’s on my feet too, and I’ve lost control again. I’m on my feet again. This time I can’t stop as I open the door and head out into the hallway, almost breaking into a gallop as I move towards the stairs. Instead of just walking down them like a normal person, I vault over the handrail and plummet down three flights, screaming the entire way. I land in the stairwell, horrified, and look up at the poor woman working the front desk, who is equally shocked by my sudden appearance. I fling open the double doors that lead to the street and suddenly I can smell _everything_. Like, more than I ever have after living here for two years.

            My body continues on its mission for death, and I realize I have to stop this. I struggle against my own muscles, now reinforced by my sparkly new gloves and boots. I walk with a strange gait, taking wide steps and half-running to wherever my brain thinks I can get living flesh. I push and push, and finally get a window when I bump into a man on the street. For a split second, whatever is pushing me forward loses control, and I pull myself off the sidewalk into a small alleyway.

            “What the _fuck_?” I spit, looking down at myself. The crystal is receding back into my skin. I pray to god that I’m hallucinating. “Whether you’re real or not, you can’t just _do_ that!”

            _“We must eat, Bella.”_

“Okay! Cool! You wanna go to jail for murder, also?”

            _“Heh. They will never take us to jail.”_

“I don’t want to kill people!” I screeched, not caring if anyone passing by could hear. “I don’t want to be a murderer!”

            Silence.

            “Listen. I know I’m crazy-”

            _“You are not.”_

“Cool, cool. I know I’m crazy, but how about this: we go to the fucking butcher down the street, I buy the biggest, juiciest, bloodiest raw steak, and we eat that. Is that good?”

            God, now I’m saying “we”. I don’t want to give into this, but I don’t know what else to do.

            More silence.

            “Is that good?” I ask again.

            _“Maybe.”_

“Whatever. Let me do this, though.”

            I stand up straight, rub the sweat from my panic off my face, and walk back out onto the street. No one pays me any mind, thank god, as I make a beeline for the butcher. Once I’m inside, though, staring at the menu, I realize that I have no idea how to get what I want. The man behind the counter stares at me, arms crossed.

            “This is going to sound weird,” I preface, “but could you give me like… the biggest, bloodiest steak you have?”

            He cocks his head to the side. “You doin’ some grillin’?”

            I don’t know how to answer this question. I don’t know if grilling a big juicy steak is a thing or not. I panic.

            “Uh, no. I mean, not me. It’s for a friend. She just told me to come pick it up for her on the way over. She specifically told me to get a big, bloody one.”

            “Hmm.”

            He says nothing else, but goes into the back of the shop. I wait patiently, whistling and tapping my foot. God, I don’t know how to be inconspicuous. He returns with a large, plastic-wrapped package of meat that he then weighs on a scale. The weight translates into a price that I am not willing to pay, but I’ve gone this far, so I can’t turn back now. I fork over the cash, practically emptying out my wallet, and take the pack of meat back to my apartment. I walk past the front desk lady on the way in, waving awkwardly. She looks at me warily.

            Back in my apartment, I set the package of meat down on the kitchen counter and tear it open. Just as I asked, it is a big, bloody piece of meat, practically oozing nasty meat juices. I want to gag, but I can feel my mouth watering against my will.

            “Does this work?” I asked, staring at the steak.

            My answer comes when I lean forward and pick it up with both hands, tearing into it with my teeth, which somehow manage to rip off a good chunk of raw meat and chew it easily. I can only suspect that my mouth isn’t what it normally is as I continue to devour the thing, not stopping until the entire thing is gone, leaving behind nothing but a wet stain on the paper it came wrapped in.

            The flavor doesn’t hit me until I’ve eaten the entire thing, and I dive into the fridge, searching for something to wash away the taste of raw meat. I grab a Mike’s Harder and crack it open, immediately putting the can to my lips. Just as I swallow some of it, my own hand slams the can down on the counter and I spit out the liquid in my mouth, adding to the ever-growing mess of food spills on the floor that I need to clean up.

            “What the fuck?” I cry, trying to move my hand back up to my mouth to no avail.

            _“You were about to put poison into your body.”_

“It’s fucking Mike’s Harder, you straight edge bitch! I think I deserve a drink after all this!”

            _“It is alcohol. It is a mind-altering substance that can cause harm to your body.”_

“Only if I drink like a whole pack! Jesus, dude!”

            I grab my wrist and pull, but it doesn’t budge.

            _“I cannot allow you to cause harm to your own body. This is bad for your health.”_

“It is not going to kill me! You know what is going to kill me? Eating raw meat like this!” I finally manage to pull my hand away from the counter and swallow another gulp of boozy lemonade.

            _“I do not like this. Alcohol is not good for you.”_

“I was drinking long before you were inside me and I’ll do it long after you’re gone.”

            _“You think those drugs are going to get rid of me? I am Unbreakable.”_

“You’re Rosalie, I said so.”

            _“I intend to stay here. You are an ideal host.”_

“Host?” I ask, laughing a little. “Wait, so are you some kind of brain parasite? Is that what’s going on here?”

            _“Do_ not _call me a parasite!”_ the voice roars.

            The can slams down against the counter again. This time, my grip closes around it, bending and crushing the metal, spilling booze all over the counter and the floor.

            “Oh, come on, man! Not only is that such a fucking waste, but you’re making a huge mess!”

            _“Then clean it up.”_

“You’re not the boss of me!”

            I walk back to the bathroom to wash my hands of the sticky liquid and look up in the mirror as I do so.

            Staring back at me is a face not my own, a face of silver and blue, refracting all the colors of light. It has big, black eyes with red pupils, and a maw of razor-sharp teeth. It is a monster. I start, but do not fall backwards this time, instead staring at the reflection—my reflection?

            Not my reflection, as it doesn’t mirror my actions at all. Instead, it stares back, grinning, looking me over as I look over it.

            _“I_ can _be the boss of you, Bella. But I don’t think you’d want that.”_

After I blink a few times, the face is gone, replaced by my own, gaunt visage. I splash water on my face and walk back into the kitchen.

            I guess I should text my mom and tell her that I’m really sick.

**Author's Note:**

> this is random idea i came up with while bedridden with illness, so i'm not sure where it's going or if i'll come up with a solid enough idea to continue it, but i wanted to throw it out there since a couple people really liked the concept! i apologize if there are any typos; as i said, i was sick while i wrote this, so i'll try to go over it and edit later


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